


Of The Sea

by stardustings



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Multi, alternate universe - parish council, everyone is in it eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4710797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustings/pseuds/stardustings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'What we need is more cultural events,' said Enjolras, looking around the table at his fellow councillors. 'We need to foster a sense of community so that people are interested and feel that they belong.' </p>
<p>Enjolras is a young parish councillor in a small English seaside village. He loves his town and absolutely does not love the cynical, often-drunken artist who always shows up at community meetings to tell him all his ideas are rubbish. All Enjolras wants to do is throw a great street fair for his village this summer. Is that really too much to ask?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of The Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I have only written a little of this so far, because what was intended to be a frivolous, self-indulgent piece of writing for my study breaks turned into a much more involved idea than I had anticipated. BUT I truly have no idea if it is terrible and boring. It seems a waste of time to write a long, chaptered fic if no one is actually interested. Therefore, I'm putting the first little bit out there to see if it is a premise people are interested in. I may re-write this beginning a bit as I get more of the story together, but this is the general idea. 
> 
> Mostly I am interested in the idea of Les Amis in a village as opposed to the city we usually see them in. And also no matter how hard I try not to think about it, I am basically always thinking about Les Mis/Parks and Recreation crossovers. Fun fact I do not live in England nor to I know anything about parish council other than what my googling has told me, but this is more an exercise in stretching the context of Les Amis to fit a less common setting. I am sorry for rambling here, I am nervous.

'What we need is more cultural events,' said Enjolras, looking around the table at his fellow councillors. 'We need to foster a sense of community so that people are interested and feel that they belong.' 

'As if bored youths care about _cultural events_ ,' replied Javert, rolling his eyes. 'We ought to put up more cameras and punish the little buggers.' 

'How do you know it's _youths_ , Javert? It might not be,' countered Valjean, leaning back calmly in his chair as Myriel nodded slowly - though whether he was even paying attention to what was being said was debatable, Myriel was a good councillor but the older he got the more distracted he was getting - and Mrs Thénardier looked gleefully amused at the mounting tension. 

'Who else would it be?' snapped Valjean.

'A band of roguish elderly thugs? A gang of middle-aged divorcees? The possibilities are endless,' offered Valjean, spreading his hands to indicate the infinite demographical possibilities of who may be responsible for the recent spate of vandalism in the village. The vandalism had involved kicked down mailboxes and some graffiti in the form of a tag that simply read 'popcorn' in red letters. It had caused quite a stir in the village. 

And now it was causing a stir in their meeting of parish councillors as they tried to figure out what to do about it.

Mrs Thénardier was laughing, an unsettling cackle that always felt as though it was at the expense of someone else, and this seemed only to bother Javert more, his brows knitting together in a deep frown. Enjolras watched as Javert opened his mouth to retort.

'Okay,' Enjolras said quickly and loudly, cutting him off before things got too out of hand and off track, 'Back to the point?'

'It was probably one of your lot,' said Javert, pointing an accusatory finger at Enjolras.

'My lot?' asked Enjolras, fighting not to rub his eyes or show any sign of weakness. Javert could be ruthless and he seemed to be in a particularly difficult mood today. The best method was to stay calm. Which wasn't really Enjolras's forte, but he tried his best.

'All your hippie friends,' replied Javert, leaning forward in his seat for emphasis. Enjolras often wondered if he knew how dramatic he was. 

'You think my friends kicked over some mailboxes and spraypainted the word 'popcorn' on the butchers, the newsagency, the beach sign, and a fence?' asked Enjolras, raising his eyebrows. His voice was calm but he was tapping his pen on his notepad rapidly. _Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap_. 'Do you think _all_ my friends did this, or maybe it was just Combeferre, the _doctor_? I'm sure, after a long night of house calls, he thought a great way to blow off some steam would be some light vandalism. Or how about Courfeyrac and Marius? Two lawyers, out for a night of casual village desctruction! I mean, why not! I'm sure Jehan isn't the first history teacher to think defacing a hundred year old building was an excellent idea. Of course-'

'Enjolras,' said Valjean, his tone sharp but expression gentle. Enjolras stopped and Valjean smiled sympathetically. Javert had fallen silent, sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed, a sullen look on his face. 

'I agree,' Myriel interjected suddenly, still nodding his head in a steady bob as he turned to Enjolras. 'Your friends would do no such thing. I have known them a long time, and they are good people.' He said it decisively, before moving on. 'Now what about this culture idea? I quite like it.'

'Thank you, yes,' said Enjolras, leaping at the chance to get back to the point. 'What I _wanted_ to suggest was some events to help renew the sense of community and boost spirits. Even if it _doesn't_ appeal to the vandals-' Enjolras couldn't help but throw Javert a pointed look '-it will help everyone else feel reconnected. And maybe even safer. We _have_ let the cultural side of things slip a little.' 

Everyone was silent for a moment.

'I think it's a good idea,' said Mrs Thénardier when it became apparent there was no more drama to be had. 

'Do you have any specific ideas?' asked Valjean.

'I was thinking perhaps some kind of art or gallery exhibition? Or maybe a series of exhibitions? Maybe some live music, movie nights, street fairs, that kind of thing? It's nearly summer, we should be making the most of the season.'

'You know we don't really have the money,' said Javert cautiously. 'And I'm not trying to shoot down the idea, all right?' He raised his hands in the air defensively. 'But where are we getting the money for all this?'

'The street fair idea could raise revenue if we charged a fee to vendors,' suggested Mrs Thénardier. 'And there are other things we could do. Dances. Bands. We mightn't have the money to open an entire gallery or exhibition space, though I can look into funding, but we can have smaller events that'll earn us money.'

'The street fair, I think, is a good idea,' said Valjean, nodding his head enthusiastically.

'Yes, it's a good idea,' agreed Enjolras. When it came to money Mrs Thénardier was a never-ending source of good ideas on how to earn it. 

'Oh dances, we used to have those all the time back in my day,' said Myriel wistfully. 'The hall would fill up with all the people, everyone with their hair combed and their finest clothes on...'

Eventually they decided the street fair was to be the priority, which Myriel seemed disappointed about until they discussed potential food vendors. The mention of ice-cream and pastries bought him around to the idea. At the end of the meeting, even Javert had grumbled his approval and it was official: the village street fair was go.

 

-

 

Fridays always felt long, usually because of the meeting in the morning (it was amazing how tense and heated discussions about waste disposal and allotments could get), and Enjolras had a small tradition of taking a walk on the beach once the work day was over. 

Walking from the small village square to the sea only took about ten minutes, including nodding at locals or stopping for a quick hello. Everyone more or less knew that Friday afternoons meant his walk on the beach; the village was moderately small and had retained an air of closeness and familiarlity over the years. 

'There goes young Enjolras, off for his walk,' the more bored and observant residents would note as he walked by. 

Enjolras loved the sea-salt air, the lapping waves, and the setting sun. He always had. He'd spent his entire life by the sea and he'd never gotten sick of it; in fact, he'd craved it, missed it, felt heartbroken and homesick for it when he'd gone to University. At the time he had felt important and grown up, trading seagulls for a city skyline and the crashing waves for honking traffic. But he had missed home.

Enjolras hadn't _hated_ the city, it had provided valuable opportunities, connections, and experiences, but the sea was home and he'd fled back to the familiar coastline straight after graduation.

Another familiar sight at the sea lately was Grantaire. For the past few weeks, Enjolras had found him with his easel set up on the last patch of grass before it peppered out from green tufts to golden sand. Grantaire was painting what he sarcastically called 'scenes of nature'. 

Enjolras was acquainted with the artist through his sudden attendance at community meetings. He was, quite frankly, a complete and utter nuisance. At the first meeting Grantaire attended, the man had abruptly stood up and argued that putting down a paved footpath to the beach was a _ridiculous_ idea. Enjolras counter-argued that turning up to a community meeting clearly drunk was even more ridiculous. Everyone had looked between them with wide eyes. It probably hadn't been the most appropriate response, but Valjean had swooped in to calm down the situation and Grantaire had slumped back down into his seat with a small frown on his face. 

But he didn't stop showing up at the meetings. Sometimes drunk, sometimes not. Never very helpful. 

Though council never _did_ end up doing that paving project. 

Enjolras had wondered where Grantaire had come from, he certainly hadn't grown up in the village, and he would surely have noticed the dark hair and odd-but-nice features and large, distracting hands... and also the general drunken disorder and argumentative nature. 

Enjolras had complained so much about the frustrating mystery of it all that Courfeyrac took pity on him and befriended the newcomer. Well, it was partially pity and partially that Grantaire just seemed to get along with Courfeyrac. In the end the means didn't matter because Courfeyrac discovered that Enjolras was right. Courfeyrac had practically collected a dossier on the guy, which he shared over dinner with Combeferre and Enjolras at Courfeyrac and Combeferre's house.

'He didn't grow up here,' said Courfeyrac, pouring himself another glass of wine. 'Which is obvious or else we would have at least seen him around at some point in our lives. He moved here because his grandfather died, he was that old ex-fisherman in the house near the beach, do you remember?'

'The recluse one who got mad if you came too close to his house?' asked Enjolras. He knew because he'd been shouted at enough times.

'Yep! That was his grandfather.' 

'That sounds about right,' Enjolras said, sighing.

'Yeah well, Grantaire inherited his house and now he lives there. And that's why he's here,' Courfeyrac concluded.

'Great. Why couldn't he be a recluse like his grandfather?' Enjolras asked, more to his plate of food than anything.  

'Why do you let him bother you?' Combeferre asked.

'I don't,' Enjolras shot back hastily. 'He doesn't bother me.'

Courfeyrac laughed.

'If you say so,' said Combeferre in drily teasing tone. 

'He disrupts the community meetings! For no good reason other than his own apparent entertainment. I mean imagine if he came into your practice and started contradicting everything you said to your patients?' Enjolras asked Combeferre. 

'I know it's annoying, but that's kind of what people do. It's not like he's the first person to argue with you at a meeting,' replied Combeferre.

'You once got into a shouting match with Javert in front of everyone,' added Courfeyrac. 'That was a good meeting.' 

'Yes but the other people who argue actually _care_. Even Javert. But I can tell Grantaire doesn't. Like what is his deal? Is he bored? Doesn't he have things to do? What _does_ he do? For a job?' asked Enjolras, stabbing at his food.

'He's an artist,' replied Combeferre.

'Husband!' declared Courfeyrac, dropping his cutlery onto his plate with a dramatic clatter, while Combeferre, ever practiced, blinked calmly at him. 'I can't believe you've joined me in my sleuthing! Finally! After all this time! Oh how I've waited... years upon years...'

Courfeyrac placed a hand on his chest and stared happily at Combeferre.

'Firstly, your heart is on the other side. You should know that by now,' said Combeferre, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth as Courfeyrac hastily switched hands. 'Secondly, what you do is more like _gossiping_ , not _sleuthing._ And thirdly, I was there when he happily told us all of this, so no sleuthing or gossiping was involved.'

'You are now officially my sleuthing partner. We are detective husbands! I should make badges!' said Courfeyrac, ignoring Combeferre, a wide smile on his face. 

After that dinner, Enjolras realised that knowing more about Grantaire did nothing to make him any less of a meeting interrupting pest. But somehow he had also become accustomed to Grantaire's presence; in fact, it was kind of routine now. Enjolras would make a point and he would pause, just for a second, to see if Grantaire would have anything to say, eyes warily skating over the place where Grantaire's hand would shoot up if he was in a more polite mood. Hey, Enjolras could be adaptable. He had to be, dealing with the public made it necessary.

'Hello,' Enjolras greeted Grantaire at his easel as he walked by. He was never sure if he should stop for a chat, mostly because he didn't know if Grantaire even liked him. He'd won over the friendship of what seemed like _everyone_ Enjolras knew, and he wasn't exactly unfriendly toward Enjolras. Just annoying and argumentative. 

And if Grantaire didn't like him, Enjolras didn't care. It didn't matter. Not everyone liked him; he was an adult, he could deal with it. Except Enjolras had the feeling that Grantaire didn't actually _dislike_ him either. Quite honestly, Enjolras had begun to wonder whether he was Grantaire's extra hobby, showing up and being an annoyance just for fun. Plus he'd made friends with all Enjolras's friends so he couldn't even hate the annoyance in peace. It felt like an elaborate prank. Or perhaps torture. He really wasn't sure.

'Oh, hello Mr Councillor!' replied Grantaire. 'How is the great vandalism crisis going?'

Enjolras stopped, turning around slowly to be met with the sight of Grantaire's grinning face. _Of course_ Grantaire would make fun of the vandalism situation.

'You know, it's actually quite serious,' replied Enjolras, trying to keep his tone even. He knew from experience that having too much of a reaction only made Grantaire worse. 

'Oh yeah, everyone's talking about it,' agreed Grantaire, nodding his head, a grave expression on his face. The breeze had picked up one of his brown curls and Enjolras tried not to stare as it swayed about gently while Grantaire was talking. 'I mean, ' _popcorn_ ', right? What's it all about? What kind of statement is it making? Is it a hate crime? Or is it art?' 

Enjolras rolled his eyes. 'It was probably you,' he replied, not unkindly. Teasing. Almost.

'Me? No, no, I haven't taken up the spray can for a number of years now,' said Grantaire archly, turning back to gesture at his painting. 'Anyway, didn't they also flatten some mailboxes? Accusing me of that'd be vastly overestimating my physical capabilities.' 

Honestly, Grantaire's broad, stocky build made him look entirely capable of such a thing. Enjolras was about to say as much, but into his mind flashed the look of utter, mocking glee Grantaire would give him if he did. He'd said something about Grantaire's hands once. It had been a mistake. 

'You make a compelling point. I'll take you off the list of suspects,' replied Enjolras instead.

'I mean, let's be real it was probably a bunch of teenagers. At least, that seems to be the prevailing theory going around town. Probably drunk or high. Or both. Though it's boring enough around here that they could've been completely sober. Gotta get your kicks somehow.'

'Where would you even buy drugs in this village?' asked Enjolras, eyebrows raised.

Grantaire gave him _a look_. 'From the people who sell the drugs. Obviously.' Enjolras stared at him. 'Oh Enjolras, you can't really think your precious village doesn't have _illicit substances_ circulating?'

'No of course I don't think that.' He did think that. And Grantaire clearly wasn't buying the lie because he laughed.

'This is a small village. What the hell else are teenagers gonna do? Read literature and go berry picking? No! They get wasted and do dumb shit.'

'You sound like Javert,' replied Enjolras, crossing his arms. 

'Gross,' said Grantaire, wrinkling his nose. 'But come on, you grew up here didn't you? What did you do as a teenager?' 

'I don't know. I didn't _vandalise_.'

'No, of course you didn't,' said Grantaire, amused.

'I still did teenager-y stuff. You know, drinking and whatever. Then I went to London for University.'

'Which is where the real fun happened?' asked Grantaire hopefully.

'Sure, I guess,' said Enjolras shrugging. 'Lots of protests mostly.'

'I should have guessed.'

'Guessed what?'

'You're an obvious bleeding heart,' Grantaire said, gesturing his paintbrush toward him. 

'Bleeding heart? Really?' Actually, Grantaire wasn't wrong, but Enjolras wasn't going to let him get away with it. 'Don't you find diminishing the belief in our capacity as a human collective to be better a bit... I don't know? Predictable?' Maybe it was a weak argument, but Enjolras _did_ grow bored of this exact kind of condescention and cynicism back when he was still an undergrad attending protests and begging people to sign petitions. There was always someone ready to tell him about how it doesn't make a difference, everything is corrupt, humans are terrible, and a bunch of other nonsense that Enjolras deeply disagreed with.  

'I don't mind being predictable,' replied Grantaire, chuckling. 'I mean, if it's so common to have the capacity to... whatever you call it diminished, did you ever think that might be because the majority of people actually have the right idea? As in: people are generally terrible and don't give a shit?' 

'Majority views don't automatically indicate what is right or true.'

'That would explain how you got elected then,' said Grantaire with a grin. Enjolras frowned. 'Anyway. You should go on your walk before I make you argue with me about democracy.' Grantaire waved the paintbrush at him. 'And I'll get back to my _scene of nature_.'

Enjolras shook his head to himself, said his goodbyes, and spent his walk thinking about the nature of majority views and democracy and brown curls and a teasing smile.

 

**Author's Note:**

> SO. If you're into this idea and are down for: Grantaire in cable knit sweaters, Musichetta and her incredible singing, Myriel scoffing ice cream at the street fair, everyone spending Sunday afternoons hanging around a beach campfire, Mrs Thenardier being dodgy... and so on, then let me know. Kudos or comments or bookmarks or whatever, it's all good. 
> 
> I'm also stardustings on tumblr if you're into tag rants and stuff.


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